Weekly wonderful weirdness
[Getting Weird with Wes is a series meant to highlight all the bizarre shit floating around out there in the gaming universe. I hate normal things. Join me in celebrating the strange.]
I’m not ignorant of the fact that one person’s weird is another person’s normal. It’s part of my daily life. I can’t tell you how many times my friends have talked about a certain situation, perversion, or fetish in negative tones while I’m all like, “Yep, I’m into that.” That said, not every thing I talk about here is going to stand out as decidedly weird to you. And that’s ok. Weird is a relative term, and so long as you’re cool with getting weird with your relatives, you’re alright in my book.
I mean…uh…check out these games!
In the waking world, I have a desk job. The worst thing that could possibly happen as a result of me not doing a good job is my company loses a little bit of money because we couldn’t post adverts in time. That’s it. While the higher-ups might argue that situation would be the end of the world, I think that a worst-case scenario in which we make $200 less than we might have otherwise means the stakes aren’t incredibly high.
Now, imagine you have tentacles. And you have to control the universe.
This is where Godly Corp comes in. Simply put, you’re a strange, tentacled Lovecraftian being in charge of all the menial tasks that go along with making the universe run smoothly. And by menial, I mean pulling levers, playing cello, and shaking maracas. Y’know, all the normal universe-management stuff?
I don’t pretend to know how any of this shit actually affects the goings-on of the universe, but I also don’t have the stakes this mythical being has to contend with. If pulling levers with your bendy, slimy extremities is how the universe keeps its balance, then who the hell am I to judge?
Come to think of it, no slimy extremities have pulled my lever is nearly six months. Maybe I’m in the wrong line of business.
I’m gonna level with you on this one; I’m 32, and haven’t worn underwear in about 20 years. People ask about chafing and whatnot, but let me tell you — the human body is an amazing, adaptive machine. Put it in the desert for a few years, and it figures out how to deal with heat. Throw it in Alaska for a while, and that beautiful sack of meat figures out how to at least manage the cold. Likewise, expose your taint to the unforgiving harshness of unlubricated jeans for 20 years, and baby, your b-hole is the Danny Trejo of b-holes.
So naturally, anything where underwear is the centerpiece is automatically weird for me. Who wears underwear? I’ll tell you who — the combatants in this game. Brief Battles is a 2D arena battler where your undies grant you unique powers to knock out your foes. You can shoot fire, send iceballs, and solidify your buns to take out the competition as weird, amorphous little humans. There are also some guest appearances from game celebrities like Yooka-Laylee and whatever the shit a Stumpy is, so there’s plenty of face recognition. For people in their panties.
Like you were looking at their faces to begin with. Pervert.
Yes. Yes. Oh yes. Thank you Holmes for bestowing the knowledge of Speaking Simulator upon me. I am unworthy of such strange and ungodly finds, yet here I am, basking in its glory.
Here’s the simple setup — you need to infiltrate the human race by mastering the art of speech. As regular humans we take for granted the years and years of experience we have in maneuvering the strongest muscle in our body, the tongue. Things aren’t nearly as easy when you’re an android newly adorned with the gift of gab. Move that fleshy snake in your mouth in just the right way to pronounce verbs, enunciate words, and eventually convince someone to do the horizontal no-pants dance. Or vertical. Diagonal? I don’t care how you do it, just work that tongue, baby.
Come to think of it, no tongues have diagonally maneuvered on me in nearly six months. Maybe I’m in the wrong line of species.
See any weird shit out there lately? Send it my way, [email protected]. Nothing is too weird.
